


Toppings

by yeaka



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Established Relationship, Ficlet, M/M, Pole Dancing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-07
Updated: 2014-11-07
Packaged: 2018-02-24 10:56:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2579039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bones gets a different meal than he expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Toppings

**Author's Note:**

  * For [respoftw](https://archiveofourown.org/users/respoftw/gifts).



> Disclaimer: I don’t own Star Trek or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.
> 
> A/N: For Buffycuddlespigs, who asked for fluffy domestic McChekov on [my tumblr](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/)~

Sometimes the interim isn’t that much different than being aboard the Enterprise. He still winds up reporting to the hospital, though of course, it isn’t arranged like his sickbay, and he isn’t in charge. The nurses still follow his commands and do their best to keep him comfortable—probably more because of his legendary ‘grouchy’ attitude than his rank—but he still has to report to M’Benga. By the time he’s finally able to leave, he’s just as annoyed that there isn’t a turbolift waiting to cut his travel time in half. He’s within walking distance of his apartment—the city one, because there’s no point going back to Georgia when Starfleet’s just going to call him up again—but it’s still irritating. 

The one saving grace is that so far, every night this stay, he’s come home to a genuine, home-cooked meal like his wife used to make, back when things were good. Sure, the recipes are always distinctly European, but it’s still far better than that false Synthesizer nonsense he gets aboard the ship. He knows his new lover has other things to do: mostly studies and last-minute classes; Leonard’s going straight to hell on the age difference front. So it makes him all the more appreciative to come home like they’re a proper little Southern family, all domestic and doting with technology back at the wayside. 

Thinking about dinner with a rumbling stomach counteracts his irritation from the hospital. By the time he’s keying open the door to his apartment and stepping inside, he’s _almost_ smiling, then drops it at the distinctly neutral smell of the apartment. 

Pavel’s dishes are always fragrant. That’s half the joy of real food: all the extra senses they cater to. As he shrugs out of his jacket uniform and kicks off his shoes, he calls, “I’m home,” and almost adds ‘honey’ just for a laugh.

There’s a garbled sound from the bedroom—most likely swearing in Russian—and then Pavel’s rushing down the hall. His cheeks are flushed, curls bouncing, a little messier than usual, and he’s already changed out of his Academy uniform. Instead, he’s draped in an oversized Christmas sweater that Jim once gave Leonard for a joke. It was hideous on Leonard, of course, all decked out with knit reindeer and clashing green and red, but like with most things, Pavel manages to make it look adorable. He opens his mouth and rushes, “I am sorry, I lost track of time—”

But Leonard’s already walking around him (surreptitiously scooping Pavel up with an arm around his waist in the process) and sweeping towards the kitchen. As Leonard suspected, there’s no dinner on the table. 

“I’m sorry,” Pavel repeats. “I was busy practicing, and I must hawe forgotten. I will synthesize you something.”

Despite his disappointment, Leonard makes himself say, “It’s fine. You don’t owe me dinner.” But he _wanted_ dinner. Maybe a young, gorgeous, genius lover is already enough and the universe has finally caught up to him, deciding he can’t get a perfect househusband out of the deal, too. Then the words catch up with him, and he looks back at Pavel properly to ask, “What were you practicing?”

Pavel grins. It’s one of those shy, sheepish smiles, hiding mischief and embarrassment all at once. He clasps his hands around Leonard’s and starts to tug Leonard down the hall, walking backwards towards the bedroom. “Come. I will show you.” Leonard’s eyebrow lifts. He’s seen that look on Jim before, minus the profuse blush, and he starts to worry.

But then they hit the door of the bedroom. It takes Leonard a second to realize what’s different, but when he does, his mouth falls open. Pavel guides a gaping Leonard over to the bed, shoves him lightly to sit on the end, and walks back to the pole in the center. 

There’s a _pole_ in the center of the bedroom, and Pavel walks right up to it, locks ten fingers around it, leans in to press his cheek against the metal and ask, “Do you like it?”

As if there’s anyone in the world who wouldn’t like to see Pavel Chekov writhing around a pole. It’s all Leonard can do to nod and keep his own blush down. He feels like a dirty old pervert all over again, even though he and Pavel have had that conversation enough for a lifetime. Leonard’s always so busy stewing over his own darker tastes and kinks and toys that he forgets that Pavel’s young and exciting and up for exploration, even if everything does inevitably come back to Russia. 

Pavel smiles and mumbles, “I don’t know how good at it I am, but it came with a datachip and I hawe been studying...” Leonard doesn’t mention just yet that his spotty past gives him decent experience on a pole. After he gets Pavel’s show, he’ll probably return the favour. But right now, he doesn’t want to do anything to break this spell, so he sits still until Pavel asks, “Do you want to see...?”

“Yes,” Leonard growls. He meant to say it calmly. But Pavel just bites his lip—he’s said a million times he _loves_ it when Leonard growls at him, gets rough with him, slips into that dominant bedroom mode. In the complete absence of music, Pavel rolls his hips once against the pole.

He’s wearing tight black pants, much more form fitting than the ones of his uniform, and Leonard’s eyes lower to hungrily devour the curve of Pavel’s ass. His crotch presses into the metal, his far thigh lifting for leverage, ankle hooking around the bottom, and he rolls his whole lower body forwards and back to some nonexistent beat. His chest arches up, and if Leonard weren’t mesmerized still, he’d march forward and rip that stupid sweater off Pavel’s body—he wants to see Pavel’s pale skin against the grey, wants to see Pavel’s lithe form flatten into it, wants to watch Pavel’s small, rosy nipples grind into the pole and work themselves into hard little nubs. Instead, Pavel humps the pole in his too many clothes, then turns around, hands above his head to still hold on, and presses his ass into it. The pole digs between his cheeks, and he slides up and down it with far too much grace for someone just starting. He looks over his shoulder at Leonard, flushed and with a few curls in his eyes, and mumbles, “I’m still new...”

“That’s okay,” Leonard hisses, “I’ll teach you.” Pavel’s eyes light up, grin broadening. He turns around again and leans into it, one leg rising so his calf can rub along it, while his hips rock subtly forward, his teeth toying with his bottom lip. His hands slowly slip down, until they reach his crotch, and then he touches the hem of his sweater. 

He mutters, “Perhaps if I were not so dressed...”

Leonard can’t take it anymore. He pushes off the bed, stalking forward, empty stomach completely forgotten. He’s into a whole new hunger now, and Pavel looks delighted and steps aside to make it easier for Leonard to scoop him up. Leonard grabs him by the waist, lifts him off the floor, and Pavel squeals happily, arms looping around Leonard’s shoulders. Leonard marches him over to the bed before tossing him down—Pavel lands on his back on the mattress. He has just enough time to lift up on his elbows before Leonard’s knee is next to his. Leonard growls, “Forget dinner—I just want dessert,” and crawls onto his perfect boyfriend.


End file.
